Chapter 3 - The Baby Mark Never Got to HoldI did not answer Ethan’s call.
Nathan took the phone from my hand, silenced it, and pressed an emergency button beside the consultation-room door.
Within ninety seconds, I was in a wheelchair.
Within four minutes, I was in maternity triage.
Within fifteen, I learned that grief does not give pregnancy special treatment.
My daughter was coming.
Now.
My mother, Susan, arrived while I was six centimeters dilated.
She rushed through the delivery-room door wearing two different shoes and Mark’s old college sweatshirt.
The moment she saw me, she burst into tears.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
I grabbed her hand.
“Don’t cry.”
That made her cry harder.
I understood.
If she stopped crying, I might start.
And I wasn’t sure I would ever stop.
The nurses moved around us.
Monitors beeped.
A fetal heartbeat filled the room.
Fast.
Strong.
My daughter.
Our daughter.
Mark should have been there.
Three weeks earlier, he had joked that during labor he would become “the world’s least useful motivational coach.”
I had told him if he said You’ve got this more than twice, I would throw something at him.
Now I would have given everything I owned to hear him say it once.
At 2:41 that afternoon, less than eleven hours after her father died, my daughter entered the world screaming.
Seven pounds, one ounce.
Dark hair.
Long fingers.
Mark’s chin.
I broke when they put her on my chest.
Not quietly.
Not gracefully.
I sobbed so hard the nurse had to steady the baby.
“Hi,” I whispered.
My daughter opened her eyes.
“Hi, sweetheart.”
My mother kissed my forehead.
“What’s her name?”
Mark and I had chosen it months earlier.
“Grace.”
Grace Elizabeth Dawson.
Mark had wanted Elizabeth because it was my middle name.
I had wanted Grace because after years of fertility treatments and miscarriages, she felt like exactly that.
Grace.
Something given, not earned.
Something precious enough to frighten you.
Later, after Grace had been examined and I had been moved to a recovery room, Nathan appeared at my door.
He wasn’t alone.
A woman stood beside him.
Late forties.
Dark suit.
Hair pulled back.
She showed me identification.
“Mrs. Dawson, I’m Detective Laura Mitchell.”
My mother stiffened.
“What happened?”
I looked at Nathan.
“You tested the vitamins?”
He nodded.
My chest tightened.
“How bad?”
Nathan pulled a chair closer.
“The capsules contained a substance that should not have been present.”
“What substance?”
He named a heavy-metal compound.
I didn’t understand the chemistry.
I understood his face.
“Would it hurt Grace?”
“At the amount we detected, we don’t expect acute harm from limited exposure. We’ve drawn blood from both of you. We’re monitoring everything.”
“Limited exposure?”
“You said you switched prenatal brands recently.”
I nodded.
“About five days ago.”
Nathan exhaled.
“That may have protected you.”
The detective sat beside the bed.
“Who had access to the vitamins?”
I thought.
“Mark. Me. My mother.”
Susan immediately said, “I never touched them.”
“I know.”
“Anyone else?” Mitchell asked.
Our cleaning service came once a week.
Our neighbor had a spare key.
Then I remembered Mark’s letter.
“Ethan.”
My mother frowned.
“Mark’s brother?”
I nodded.
“He came over two weeks ago.”
“Was he alone?”
“For maybe twenty minutes.”
“What was he doing?”
“He said he wanted to repair the garbage disposal.”
Mitchell wrote something.
“What is your relationship with him?”
“He’s my brother-in-law.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
The question made me uncomfortable.
“We’re not close.”
“Were Mark and Ethan close?”
“They used to be.”
“Used to be?”
“They started arguing last year.”
“About what?”
“Business.”
I had always considered it boring sibling tension.
After their father died, Mark and Ethan inherited several commercial properties together.
Mark wanted to sell.
Ethan wanted to expand.
Eventually, Mark signed operational control to Ethan because he hated conflict.
I had teased Mark about it.
“Your brother could sell the building from under you and you’d apologize for standing on the sidewalk.”
Mark had laughed.
Now the joke made me sick.
Detective Mitchell opened a notebook.
“Dr. Harris showed us the materials Mark left.”
“Can you arrest Ethan?”
“Not yet.”
“Why not?”
“We have suspicious evidence. We need evidence tying him directly to the substances.”
“He bought insurance on Mark.”
“We’re examining that.”
“He was in our house.”
“We’re examining that too.”
“He poisoned my husband.”
Her expression remained steady.
“We believe there is enough to open a homicide investigation.”
My mother gasped.
The room tilted.
Homicide.
The word made Mark’s death feel new again.
Not illness.
Not tragedy.
Murder.
“Mrs. Dawson,” Mitchell continued, “I need you to understand something. If Ethan is involved, he may not know how much Mark discovered.”
“So?”
“So we don’t want him knowing what you know.”
I looked at my sleeping daughter.
“What am I supposed to do?”
“For now? Nothing unusual.”
“Nothing unusual?”
“Don’t confront him.”
I laughed.
It sounded almost hysterical.
“My husband died this morning, my daughter was born this afternoon, and you want me to behave normally around the man who may have killed him?”
“Yes.”
There was no softness in her answer.
Because softness would not keep us alive.
My phone buzzed.
We all looked at it.
A text.
Ethan.
I heard the baby came. Mark would’ve been so proud. I’m on my way to the hospital.
My blood went cold.
Detective Mitchell held out her hand.
“Give me the phone.”
I did.
She read the message.
Then she asked the question I was afraid to answer.
“Does Ethan know which hospital room you’re in?”
Before I could respond, someone knocked.
My mother turned toward the door.
A male voice came from the hallway.
“Emily?”
Ethan.
I grabbed Grace from the bassinet.
Detective Mitchell stood.
“Stay behind me.”
The door opened.
Ethan stepped inside carrying pink flowers.
His eyes were red.
He looked exhausted.
Devastated.
Like a man whose brother had died that morning.
When he saw Grace, his face crumpled.
“Oh, God.”
Tears filled his eyes.
“She looks like him.”
Every instinct inside me screamed.
But I remembered Mitchell’s warning.
So I forced myself to smile.
“Yes.”
Ethan approached the bed.
He kissed my forehead.
Then he looked at Grace.
“My beautiful niece.”
His finger touched her tiny hand.
I fought the urge to slap it away.
Then Ethan looked at me.
And for one terrible second, his grieving expression disappeared.
His gaze dropped toward the brown envelope beside my overnight bag.
Mark’s envelope.
His eyes remained there half a second too long.
May you like
Then he smiled.
“What’s that?”
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